


for fear your grace should fall

by future_fae_king



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: (not like that monty), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff and Angst, Henry Montague Sr.'s A+ Parenting, I love them though, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Percy is a Good Friend (The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee), Slow Burn, Sort Of, Trans Male Character, because it's tggtvav n hms is a piece of shit, but there's a happy ending so, dancing with the stars au, felicity has all the brain cells, for that sweet sweet projection, how could it not be a slow burn they're both so dumb, i bastardized it, i'm really just tagging to avoid thinking of a title at this point, in which the author projects his music taste onto the boys, monty has some shit, monty is a professional dancer, percy american and lives in nashville, percy is an indie artist a la hozier, please excuse my bad jokes, seriously fuck richard peele, the press is an Issue, they're famous!, trans! percy, we hate Richard Peele, you can pry the country gays out of my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27049033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/future_fae_king/pseuds/future_fae_king
Summary: "Truthfully, Monty hadn’t wanted to come back. But two months out of rehab, the medical bills had started piling up, and his mother finally pulled herself together and decided to leave, but she hadn’t the forethought to get a job or save any money or even try to get a lawyer, and he felt a certain obligation to pay for some of it. And there weren’t nearly as many job offers as the producer thought. When your only redeeming quality is ruined, it’s harder to get on TV. Monty’s never seen a sex symbol who looks like half of his face has been run over by a flaming truck, and there’s only so much makeup artists can do. So here he is, pretending like he’s not begging for his old job back."Monty is a professional dancer on TV's 'Nine to Jive' who's only in it for the money. Percy is an indie singer-songwriter who really wasn't even expecting to get picked. They're bad at communicating but good at dancing. Please excuse me while I project.(my draft is called *aggressively cries over trans percy and dancing competitions*)
Relationships: Felicity Montague & Henry "Monty" Montague, Henry "Monty" Montague & Percy Newton, Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton, Johanna Hoffman & Felicity Montague, Simmaa "Sim" Aldajah & Felicity Montague, Simmaa "Sim" Aldajah & Johanna Hoffman & Felicity Montague
Comments: 23
Kudos: 29





	1. pour myself a cup of ambition

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to @em_gray who came up with the name of the show after i spent almost a month crying about it,,,  
> ask and ye shall receive, happy brainrot  
> (title is from david bowie's let's dance)

The call comes at a rather inconvenient time for Percy, although really, what time isn’t inconvenient? He hates talking on the phone with a burning passion, hates the way his voice sounds cranked through machinery. It’s a remnant of the time when he hated the way his voice sounded no matter the situation, but now, three years after dropping from an alto to a tenor, it’s more of a lingering annoyance instead of extreme discomfort. But regardless, he’s still rather put out when his phone starts blaring the opening of Ship to Wreck in the middle of one of those stream-of-consciousness writing frenzies he sometimes goes into when he’s bored late at night.

The number is familiar, although he can’t place where from, and he picks up with a “Hello?” that comes out more like a sigh, balancing his phone between his head and his shoulder as he goes to scribble the last of the riff he was working on.

“Mr. Newton?” asks a woman with a Spanish accent on the other side of the line. “Yes, this is him.” This is him. Does that sound odd, or is he really just overthinking this? “I’m Helena Robles. I tried calling your agent’s office and they directed me here. We’d like you to come out for a meeting with our producers.”

“Sorry, what?” Percy can’t remember who Helena Robles is, or how he’s supposed to know her. He certainly can’t think of a reason producers for something would want to meet with him. “What producers?”

There’s a beat of awkward silence before she responds. “From _Nine to Jive: Britain_?”

“Oh. Oh!” Percy fumbles for his agent-required schedule and skims the last month’s worth of applications, and sure enough, there it is. At some point, he’d applied to be on a televised dancing competition as part of an effort to get his aunt off his back about doing something productive while he’s not on tour. And now he’s supposed to meet with the show’s producers. Oh God. “Yes. Right. Sorry. Y’all want me to come out?” _Already did that. Twice._

“Well, to meet us, yes. Can you make lunch tomorrow at 12:30? This is terribly short notice but we’ve got to start filming soon.”

“Yes, ma’am, 12:30 works.” God, he sounds like a ten-year-old again. _Ma’am._ The manners his mother taught him had come back to bite him in the ass.

Helena rattles off the address of a restaurant downtown that he hopes he’s not expected to pay for. Percy might be a full-fledged professional singer-songwriter, but between his constant medical bills, the travel expenses leftover from his tour, and the fact that his record label has probably been scamming him out of most of his royalties, he’s not eager to blow big money on a lunch he doesn’t really want to go to in the first place. But if he turns it down and his aunt finds out, she’ll give him hell for weeks. Better to go to the meeting and be awkward and off-putting and have them never call again.

…………

Monty prides himself on never being a mess, and yet, here he is, stumbling his way through a simple conversation. He’s picking at his barely-touched dinner with a fork and desperately avoiding eye contact with the new producer, a tall, bearded, rather imposing man whose name he never actually caught.

“...It’s all a matter of you feeling comfortable enough to come back,” he’s saying, looking across the table with far too much pity in his eyes, and goddamn, Monty wishes he’d never agreed to this. “We’d make sure to tread lightly.”

“You could not put on your heaviest boots and clomp through the hedges like last time?” he asks, just a bit of an edge to his words.

The producer winces. “I wasn’t here the last time.”

“It’s all the same, though. You need a story, I’m supposed to provide it?”

“Not at the expense of your health. You should eat, you know.”

Monty takes what can only be described as the most spiteful bite of salad in the history of tense job interviews. “So, what, now I’m the token queer guy on the show? We’re pulling the _Oh, look how far we’ve come_ angle? Or is it _He’s just like any other competitor, except he wears fishnets and a pink suit?_ ”

“Neither, actually. Although from what I've heard, I thought you would enjoy the pink. You’d still be paired up, judged the same, get the same amount of input into your costumes—" 

“So, none,” Monty cuts in, remembering the absolutely horrid checkered suit he’d been forced to wear his first season. He would’ve quit at the sight of it, if not for legal obligations.

“Well, yes, none. You could talk about it if you wanted, or you could not acknowledge it at all. I’ll be telling the host and the judges not to bring up your sexuality. And for the sake of ensuring you’re comfortable, you’d get a bit more input into who you’re partnered with.”

“Meaning?”

“We’d present you with a first option, and if you’d like, you can veto and we’ll have someone else on standby,” the producer says.

“Ah.” He’s fairly certain he’ll never hear the end of it from the others if it gets out he got a choice. Not after Theodosia got stuck with a douchey stand-up comedian for three weeks until she decided it wasn’t worth the money and bombed a performance just to get eliminated. “Special treatment?”

“Well, a bit. Mostly because the team wants you back on the show.”

“Have I mentioned I’m just doing this for the money? Because really, if you’re looking for someone who wants to go all the way, I’m not it.” _God, shut up. Shut up or he’ll change his mind and your contract will get cancelled all over again._

The producer quirks an eyebrow at Monty. _What’s his name? Something with an S._ After weeks of painful sobriety, the wine is wrecking him far more than it should be. “You’re not selling this well. Do you actually want to come back? There are plenty of other opportunities out there for you.”

Truthfully, Monty hadn’t wanted to come back. But two months out of rehab, the medical bills had started piling up, and his mother finally pulled herself together and decided to leave, but she hadn’t the forethought to get a job or save any money or even try to get a lawyer, and he felt a certain obligation to pay for some of it. After all, he was the reason she wanted to get out in the first place. And there weren’t nearly as many job offers as the producer ( _Skippy?_ ) thought. When your only redeeming quality is ruined, it’s harder to get on TV. Monty’s never seen a sex symbol who looks like half of his face has been run over by a flaming truck, and there’s only so much makeup artists can do. So here he is, pretending like he’s not begging for his old job back.

Instead of explaining any of this, he pastes on what is hopefully a convincing smirk and says, “I’m just playing hard to get.”

…………

Percy was expecting a camera crew and six mildly famous people in pantsuits and several fans of _Nine to Jive_ breathing down his neck the entire time, but really, it’s just lunch. Lunch with Helena Robles, who is batshit terrifying and has a look about her like she’s going to crack his skull open so she can check he’s not thinking ill of her and then hide his body in her enormous leather purse. Maybe this is worse.

His aunt’s words are still running around his head. _Make eye contact. Tell her how honored you are to be there. Be humble, but not too humble. Don’t wear jeans._ Right now he’s failing on every front, staring at his soup, mouth clamped shut and face flushed with embarrassment. Although really, do black jeans really count as jeans? Can Helena even tell?

“So you’ll be one of our nine celebrity contestants, and you’ll be paired with one of our professional dancers. Depending on how far you make it, you’ll move from one dance a week to two, and if you make the finals, you’ll do three, including, obviously, a jive, but I wouldn’t worry about that.” Is that a jab? Percy can’t tell.

“Celebrity contestant?” he asks, because that’s easier to deal with than Helena’s possible passive-aggressive insult. “I’m not really a celebrity. I mean, I write music, but it’s not like anyone’s throwing articles of clothing at me or asking me to be on Saturday Night Live.” Is that too humble? It’s the truth.

Helena gives him an unimpressed look. “You have eight million monthly listeners on Spotify.”

“Well, yes, but that’s— people can have more than one account, you know. And I have a big family.” “You think eight million people only listen to your music because you’re related to them?”

It sounds absolutely idiotic when she says it in that tone. Percy scrambles for another point of protest. “Your viewer base hasn’t even heard of me! I’m a twenty-year-old American violinist whose fans are mostly young gays starved for representation.”

She snorts. “Free publicity, then.”

And okay. He really can’t argue with that. “So, you’re offering me a job?”

“I thought that was obvious. The show runs nine weeks total, but you only stay on until you’re eliminated and then come back for the finale. You’d get paid by the episode, but you’re guaranteed at least one hundred thousand pounds for coming on for the first two weeks.”

_Jesus fucking Christ._ “One hundred thousand?” Percy chokes out, suddenly very concerned about the fact that he wore jeans. He wore _jeans_ to an interview for a job that pays _one hundred thousand pounds_ for two weeks of work.

“Yes.” The corner of Helena’s mouth twitches in what could be amusement. “We can sign the paperwork now, if you’d like.”

And God, Percy’s aunt will skin him alive if he doesn’t. And his traitorous brain is running five million minutes ahead of schedule, planting him on a ballroom floor, feeling the same rush he gets from playing shows that he doesn’t have the money to put on right now. And if he absolutely bombs it, he’ll never hear a word about branching out again. And if he doesn’t, well, that’ll be another thing entirely.

“Okay.”

…………

There’s nothing to prepare Percy for the absolute chaos of the week that follows. He’s carted to and from studios for costume fittings and lighting checks. He goes to the doctor twice, once because part of his contract says that he has to be healthy in order to participate, and once to pick up enough medication to last him the three months in London. It’s only three days until he leaves with his aunt-slash-agent Mary Powell when his entire extended family, aunts and uncles and cousins he hasn’t seen in years, fly into Nashville to wish him luck after someone (read: his father, a little bit buzzed and very proud) broke the news that he was going to be on TV on Facebook. There are five people staying in his one-bedroom, and Percy might just lose his mind if he’s got to endure another night of tripping over relatives in order to get to the bathroom or have coffee, so he’s bundled up against the cold and slipping out the door when he nearly smacks foreheads with his mother.

She starts. “Oh! Percy!”

“Hi, Mama. What are you doing here?” Percy’s mother lives out in the suburbs. Normally, he’s the one making the trip.

“I stopped over at your daddy’s place and he made you a casserole,” she says, holding up a bag stuffed with Tupperware containers. “But if you’re heading out then I can come back later.”

“No, no, no!” Percy says quickly, pulling the door shut behind him as one of his aunts waves hello to his mother. He’ll be damned before he gets dragged back into that apartment. He loves his family, he really does, but there’s only so many times you can listen to a woman you haven’t seen since you were ten critique your system of dish organization. “You’re fine. I was going for a walk.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Not at all.”

Percy’s mother rambles about her latest date (apparently, he mixed up reservations and accidentally booked a table at a tourist trap restaurant with large plaster dinosaurs hiding load-bearing posts) and how his second cousin has already broken three vases practicing tennis inside the house as they take the elevator down and wander out the lobby doors. It’s all so normal that he forgets that he’s due to leave in three days until she asks if he’s found out who his partner is.

“We don’t find out until the first day of rehearsal—it’s supposed to be a live reaction thing.”

She makes a face at that. “You don’t even get a hint? What if y’all hate each other?”

“That’s kind of the point. There’s supposed to be ‘interesting dynamics’ between partners, whatever that means.” Percy shrugs. “I think the producers normally pick people who are pretty different.”

“They better not make you dance with some stuck-up, country-music-hating city boy, or you two’ll strangle each other by the end of the first rehearsal,” Percy’s mother says, and he can’t help but laugh.

“We live in a city too, Mama. And not liking country doesn’t automatically make you stuck-up.”

“Just uncultured.”

“Maybe. Besides, they don’t have two guys dance together anyway.”

“Really?” She tilts her head and stops in front of a bakery. “It’s a dance competition. I thought they’d’ve had plenty of opportunities for queer folks to perform.”

Percy pulls the door open and snorts. “It’s surprisingly straight.”

…………

Promotional photos are going to drive Monty insane if his hangover doesn’t do the job first. He’s been stuffed into the same god-awful suit as the rest of the male professionals, had a woman with bad breath try to smear concealer over his burn scars for half an hour before giving up and suggesting plastic surgery, dealt with three phone calls from his mother panicking about how to use a chip and pin machine, and on top of it all, he’s stuck next to Richard _fucking_ Peele and expected to smile and not commit homicide. The photographer is still organizing the ladies when Richard first whispers an invitation to do something more _enjoyable_.

“I’d rather gouge out my own eyes,” Monty spits, perhaps a little too loud. One of his coworkers, a rather muscly ginger, turns to raise an eyebrow at him, and Monty shoots him a glare. He is not going to let some prick with no concept of how to properly tie a bowtie make him feel ashamed.

Of course, Monty reasons half an hour later, kneeling on the floor of a supply closet nestled in a back hallway of the studio and watching Richard slam the door as he leaves, it’s not like he needs anyone’s help in feeling like shit anyway. His own poor decisions are more than sufficient. It’s a full five minutes before Monty can force himself to stand up and fix his hair, wincing at the way his knees pop. He’s so busy stewing in self-hatred that he forgets to check if there’s anyone in the hall before he stumbles out the door, and it’s too late to hide again when he notices the man leaning against the wall opposite him.

“Are you alright?” the man asks softly, pulling out an earbud and staring at him, and damn it all, why did he have to be _cute?_ So, so cute, with curly hair in a ponytail and limbs a little too stretched out for his body and long piano-player hands. And wait—

“Absolutely smashing, darling,” Monty says, but, of course, his voice cracks on the last word, because _Christ,_ is that who he thinks it is? He’s different, not clinging to that ancient violin like it’s a lifeline, not bathed in spotlights and seeming a million miles away.

“You just— what were you doing in a supply closet? Is that a thing y’all do over here, just hang out in closets? Am I missing something?” _Shit. Think, what’s a plausible explanation besides ‘I was doing my obligatory post-Richard five minutes of shame-sulking’?_

“Y’all?” is what spills out of Monty’s mouth, because he’s still a little bit stuck on the sheer _warmth_ in that single syllable, and the fact that of all the people they could’ve brought on this season, they picked _him_. “Who says y’all?” _Fuck_. “I mean—” His eyes catch on a case at the man’s feet, a violin case, and Monty is dangerously close to a hysterical laugh.

“Who says ‘absolutely smashing’?” he asks in a bastardized British accent, and Monty really doesn’t have a response to that other than an open-mouthed gape.

“You’re— Sorry, it’s just— You’re Percy Newton.”

Percy Newton’s mouth falls open. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I thought you were making fun of— my family was convinced that British people were going to all be stuck-up and I told them that that’s stupid because I’ve been here before but I guess it rubbed off on me and— sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry, I panicked. I mean, not because of you. I didn’t panic because of you. That’s not it.”

Jesus. Percy Newton is coming on the show. Percy Newton, who’s written the songs Monty cries to at three in the morning. Percy Newton, who was on the cover of the _Rolling_ _Stone_ six months ago and casually peppered in the fact that he was trans and demi into his interview. Percy Newton, who Monty saw on tour in between this season and the last, who plays violin and sings like a goddamned angel, who looked like an angel too, up on that stage, and may or may not have had every single one of his Instagram posts liked by Monty. Not that that’s strange.

“Oh.” The corner of Percy Newton’s mouth twitches. “Okay. I’ll just—” he moves to pick up his violin case and Monty is absolutely scrambling for anything to say.

“Your post,” he squeaks out after a moment. “Of, well, you. And the flowers. At that restaurant. From three weeks ago. You were- it was pretty.”

“Thank you?”

And then, because Monty is pretty damn sure he’s going to spontaneously combust if he stands here and makes a fool of himself any longer, he turns on his heel and leaves.

…………

A week later, the day they start filming, Monty still hasn’t recovered from his absolute disaster of a conversation with Percy Newton. Percy Newton. Technically speaking, Monty is famous. He’s met _Elton fucking John,_ for God’s sake. There is absolutely no rational reason he should be this much of a mess over an indie artist with a beat-up violin case and absolutely gorgeous hands.

Of course, Felicity is tired of hearing about this by now. She huffs on the other end of the line and grumbles something about her sleep schedule, but Monty keeps on barrelling forwards. “—And I don’t get it. Feli, it’s abso-bloody-lutley ridiculous. Sobriety really is fucking with me. I can barely hold a conversation anymore.” Well. Semi-sobriety, anyway. He’s slipped up once or twice after he agreed to come back to the show.

“I don’t think sobriety is your issue here,” Felicity says, that same lilt to her voice that she always gets whenever she’s certain she’s right.

“What is it then?” Monty challenges, sprawling across the folding chairs the producers have set up in the corner of the studio. He’s waiting for whatever B-list actress they’ve paired him up with to get to the first day of rehearsals, so naturally, he had to pester Felicity in his spare time.

“You’ve been moony over him for months. Which, by the way, makes zero sense to me. How can you possibly be attracted to someone you’ve never met?”

“First off, Feli, you’re not attracted to anyone you have met, so I don’t really think you’re in a position to criticize who I think is fit. Also, who said I was attracted to him? I’m not.”

She scoffs. “Monty, you just got done telling me how pretty his hands are. You have that goddamn _Rolling Stone_ sitting on your coffee table every time I come to your apartment.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You don’t get the _Rolling Stone,_ Monty. You don’t read unless it’s tabloids, texts, or song lyrics.”

“I resent that!” he says, although really, she’s right. Monty doesn’t think he’s read a book all the way through since he dropped out of uni three years ago. “I am an intellectual, Felicity Montague.”

Monty can tell she’s making her _you’re so full of shit_ face. “Anyway. How long will it be before I have to knock six times before I use the key because he’s staying over at yours?”

“I’m sorry, have we not been over the fact that I was a disaster to rival that ghastly suit?”

“You’re never going to get over that, are you?”

“It was _monstrous_ , Feli. I’m fairly certain I could’ve sued for psychological damage and won.” Monty stretches out some more across the chairs, letting his head hang off of the side so he can stare at the far wall with his phone pressed to his good ear. “It doesn’t matter though, because I’m only going to see him on competition days, and I’m not embarrassing myself again. I’m never speaking to him again.” There’s a soft knock on the door, and Monty starts. “Shit, Feli, partner’s here.”

“Good luck. Hope you wind up with someone else you can make a fool of yourself in front of.”

“Yeah, ha ha.” He rolls to the side and narrowly avoids smacking his face on the hardwood flooring. “Laugh it up at your poor brother.”

“With pleasure,” Felicity shoots back, and before Monty can think of something snarky to say back, she hangs up.

There’s another knock. “Sorry, yeah, one second,” Monty calls, picking himself up off the floor, ruffling his hair, and smirking. If his partner is doomed to be stuck with a scandal like him, the least he can do is look the part. “Come in, darling! Welcome to _Nine to_ —” The words die in his throat.

“Hi, darlin’,” Percy Newton says, grinning sheepishly in the doorway, and Monty is abso-bloody-lutely _fucked_.


	2. maybe i shouldn't stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty and Percy's first rehearsal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a shorter chapter because school has been kicking my ass, but y'all actually get substantial mercy interaction this time so

Percy has no idea what he’s supposed to say, honestly. It’s been freezing all week (London, he’s decided, is entirely too cold for anyone sensible) and he’s stressed and tired and missed his train this morning, and now he’s standing in the doorway of what’s going to be his rehearsal room, desperately trying to hide his shock. 

Because not only have the producers of  _ Nine to Jive _ paired him up with a man, they’ve paired him up with the man he met in the back hallway, who had very obviously snuck away from promo pictures for a closet hookup (perhaps  _ closet  _ in more than one sense of the word) and was a stammering mess for most of their conversation. And now Percy’s gone and called him  _ darling _ out of sheer panic. He’s acutely aware of the camera propped up on a stand in the corner of the room, and is already self-conscious about the way his sweatpants make his hips look wider. 

The man —his partner—has apparently recovered from his initial surprise, because instead of continuing to gape at Percy from across the room, he’s stepping closer while unsubtly checking his hair in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and extending a hand to shake. “Hallo as well,  _ darling _ .” And goddamn, it sounds so different when he says it, and still so good at the same time. 

Percy stumbles his way through the handshake, not sure if he’s supposed to introduce himself, or if they’re going to give up the charade of not recognizing each other, and scuffs the toe of his sneaker on the floor until he can muster up a “I didn’t think they let—” 

He’s not allowed to finish, for his partner cuts in. “It’s so nice to meet you. Mr. Newton, right?” 

“Yes. You?” It’s painfully stiff. Percy isn’t sure where in this room he’s supposed to look. If he focuses on the walls, all he sees is his own awkwardness reflected back at him, but looking his partner in the face seems just as bad. Not because he’s unpleasant. But because Percy can’t possibly force himself to meet those eyes, not when he’s distinctly remembering how the man almost slipped up and called him pretty. And also because the right side of his face is rather scarred up, and he doesn’t want to look like he’s staring. 

“Monty. Do you want some champagne?”

“God, yes, please.”

After a glass, it’s significantly less awkward. Monty (Percy’s pretty sure it’s been two glasses for him) is remarkably talkative. He’s perched on the windowsill, feet resting on the chair next to Percy’s, on a tangent about something maudlin, how his sister’s best friend has a rather large and excitable dog, and Percy, for some goddamn reason, is hanging onto every word. 

“Sorry, you must think I’m dead boring,” Monty says after a bit, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Go on, ramble about yourself for a while.”

Percy winces. “Um. Okay. I’m a musician, been playing the violin since I was six. I grew up in Louisiana, I live in Nashville, I read a lot, I honestly wasn’t expecting to get chosen for this, and I’m pretty sure I’m the boring one out of the two of us.”

Monty tips back his head in a breathy, open-mouthed laugh. “Oh  _ darling _ , you have no idea.” 

“You seem familiar, somehow.” Percy cants his head to the side, trying to ignore that _ darling _ . “I’ve never seen the show—were you in something else?”

“Nope,” Monty says, popping the  _ p _ , and his discomfort is visible in the way he shifts in his seat. “My father is in the House of Lords, though.”

“Ah.” 

“So. Have you got any dance experience?” Percy shakes his head, and Monty frowns. “No bad waltzing at weddings? No  _ cupid shuffle _ at shitty school dances?” 

“I was homeschooled.” 

Monty gets to his feet, and offers a hand. “Well, today is mostly about getting into the swing of things and getting the basics down. You’re not going to think I’m trying to get you in bed if I touch your waist, right? Because I mean, I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable, but ballroom dancing is sort of a hands-on activity.”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Percy takes his hand. “Why would I think that?”

Monty just gives him a shrug. “I have a bit of a reputation.”

They stretch, and Monty makes fun of Percy because he can’t touch his toes, (“It’s not that difficult!” “You’ve got a way shorter distance, though.” “Glad to see we’ve started with the height jokes already.”) and then Percy is staring at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, stumbling through a set of steps while Monty watches, arms crossed. 

“Sorry, I really am shit,” Percy says after his third failed attempt. “I think it would be easier if we were dancing together—then I’d at least have you to drag me through it.”

“You’ve got to trust yourself to get it right first, darling.”

_ Darling _ . There it is again. Percy wonders if this is just a habit of Monty’s, if he calls everyone darling, or if he’s brought this upon himself because he was stupid enough to say it first. He’s not sure which option is preferable. But at least he’s able to make it through the combination this time. He looks over, and Monty stumbles in the middle of a different set of steps. 

“Balance has been a bit wonky,” Monty explains sheepishly, “ever since— well, you know.” He flaps a hand through the air on the scarred side of his face, and Percy allows himself a moment to actually look. They’re burn scars, puckered and red, and Monty’s right ear is a bit mangled, with a bulky hearing aid wrapped around it. “But it’ll be fine. I’m still— my doctor said— anyway, it won’t be an issue.”

“Okay,” Percy says. He wants to ask what happened, but that seems rather personal for people who’ve only just met. “While we’re on the subject, you should probably know about my epilepsy.”

“Epilepsy?” Monty asks, his voice pitching a little too high for him to come off as calm. 

“Well, yes. I’m medicated, so I should be mostly fine, but I take the train because driving makes me nervous, so I might be late some days. Also, if I happen to have a seizure, you should call my aunt so she can take me to the hospital. She came over with me. I’ll give you her number, here—” Monty pulls out his phone while Percy rattles off the phone number. “So. That’s that.”

“Okay.” Monty won’t look Percy in the eye. “I’m not going to—if it  _ does _ happen, what should I do? Besides call your aunt?”

Percy shrugs. “Make sure I don’t hit my head on anything or choke on my own vomit. That’s really all you can do.”

Monty, to his credit, only looks mildly horrified. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. It’ll be fine, though. How do you do this combination again?”

And Monty goes back to patiently explaining a step-ball-change, like Percy hasn’t just told him something he’s managed to hide from everyone outside his family for four years. And it’s not as horrid as Percy thought it would be, and for that he’s grateful. 

They break at three so Monty can call his mother. He returns from the hallway ten minutes later, his face twisted in frustration. “She’s in her forties—you’d think she would know how to use a goddamn blender.”

Percy doesn’t ask why Monty’s mother can’t use a blender, just shrugs and reaches for something to talk about. Of course, he lands on the topic that will make them both uncomfortable as quickly as possible. “Are you surprised that it’s me?”

“Well, yes. That’s sort of the point.”

“No, I mean, are you surprised that you got paired with a man?” Percy asks hesitantly, and Monty bites his lip, and  _ Dear Lord _ , he should stop talking. “I’ve never seen a competition like this have a same-gendered pairing.”

“Why does it matter?” Monty scoffs. “I thought you were the king of country gays or something.”

“Pretty sure that’s Dolly Parton. Actually, no, I’m absolutely sure that’s Dolly Parton. It’s not even close.”

Monty gives him a pained look. “Can we  _ please _ not talk about this on-camera?”

And for some reason, that feels like a kick in the stomach. “Are you  _ upset _ that you got paired with a man?”

“What do you want me to say? No, I’m  _ thrilled  _ that I’m going to get hounded by people who want to write rubbish about me in the tabloids for the next ten weeks.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I mean, a little bit it is. If anyone’s next to you they automatically look like they’re part of some grand crusade for the future of humanity. The chivalry is exhausting.”

“Chivalry?” Percy asks, and he can hear his voice pitching upwards. “What have I done that’s so  _ chivalrous _ ?”

“Well, becoming the fucking mascot of queer people seems pretty princely to me,” Monty spits out, his face flushed. 

God, why is Percy even listening to this? “So I’m too gay for you? You’re scared it’s going to rub off?”

“Don’t be daft—what do you think it looks like, me standing next to you in some god-awful glittery suit they’ve picked? Not exactly discrete, is it?”

And oh. Oh God. “You’re… you’re not out?”

Monty barks out a humorless laugh. “I mean, I am. I’d just rather not discuss it in front of thousands of people.”

“I…” Percy has no idea what to say here. How to make it seem like this isn’t a big deal when it very obviously is. How to reassure Monty, who’s got his shoulders drawn up and looks so very small in this moment. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. It’s not  _ your  _ fault,” Monty replies, his voice hollow. “I really,  _ really  _ should not have come back.”

“I can drop out, if you want.” The words are out of Percy’s mouth before he can think about their consequences. 

“Don’t,” Monty says quickly. “Don’t quit because of me.”

“Okay.”

And then they just stare at each other. Percy couldn’t form an intelligent phrase if his life depended on it. 

He’s saved when Monty’s phone rings again. “It’s Mother. Sorry.” Monty is already halfway out the door, but he sticks his head back in to tack on an odd request. “Please don’t Google me.”

…………

Percy isn’t even through the door of the flat his aunt has rented out when his mother texts him to ask how rehearsal was, and less than thirty seconds later, his father is calling him. For two people who are no longer together, they’re aggressively in sync. 

“Hi, Dad,” he answers with a sigh. 

“Hey Percy. Who’s the lucky lady?”

“What?”

“Theodosia? Amelia? Elizabeth?”

Percy realizes with a start that his father is listing off the names of female professionals. “You watch  _ Nine to Jive _ ?”

“Well, I do now that my son is starring,” Percy’s father says, pride evident in his voice. “Come on, who is it?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” Percy says, but it’s really just a front. He’s going to have it prodded out of him one way or another. 

His father sighs. “I won’t tell the internet. Just your mother. And maybe a few select others.”

“Just Mama. Don’t get me fired.”

“I won’t, I won’t. So, who is she?”

“He,” Percy corrects. It feels like a betrayal, a little bit, telling someone after what he found out about Monty today, but it’s not like his family won’t know eventually. 

“He?”

“He.”

“Well, that’s...” Percy’s father trails off. “Is this a ‘this is lovely’ moment or a ‘how dare they’ moment?”

“More like a ‘I wasn’t expecting it, but I’m not going to be upset about it unless he wants me to be’ moment.”

“Alright. Okay.”

“His name is Monty,” Percy continues on, because he’s desperate for some sort of normal conversation. “He seems nice. He’s funny.”

“And he’s…” There’s an unspoken question in his father’s words.

“I don’t know,” Percy says. It’s easier than explaining.  _ Yes, I think, but don’t bring it up. I haven’t asked. I mean, I saw him leaving a broom cover with his shirt buttoned wrong five minutes after another man left, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Why should it matter? _

“If he’s awful about it—“

“He’s not. He’s fine. He’s nice.” God. Okay. He’s stuck at two-word sentences choked out over the phone. This is a development.

“M'kay.” Percy’s father sounds doubtful. “If you want your mother and I to talk some sense into him—” 

“I swear you don’t need to.”

“Alright. I’m going to call your mama then to let her know. Love you, Percy.”

“Love you, Dad.”

It’s not even five minutes before Percy’s phone buzzes as he gets a text from his mother. 

**Mama: Does he like Dolly Parton?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a fic playlist on spotify now if any of y'all would like to listen and make fun of my music taste while you read (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6zctCu0S0rlnXh7coekx7x?si=sSbomnjrS_OUZp2JJTEF0A)  
> thanks for reading!


	3. there's nothing better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty and Percy's first performances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay sjfkdhjflhj it's really been 22 whole days,, i swear i've been writing i'm just slow

Percy would like to imagine that he is a patient man. He likes to think that when put under pressure, he can stay collected. He would even venture to say that he’s good at waiting. 

But goddamn, costume fittings are getting to him. It’s not even that he’s already sore from rehearsals and hasn’t had his coffee yet and now he’s being forced to stand in odd positions that hurt like hell to hold long enough for the seamstress to double-check his measurements—it’s that Monty is across the room also getting fitted, and won’t stop  _ looking  _ at him. 

They still haven’t talked about it. It’s been a week and a half of learning steps, both for the opening number and their first competitive dance, and avoiding eye contact. Which, by the way, is a hell of a lot harder to do if the person you’re trying not to look at constantly has their face less than two feet from yours. Percy isn’t sure what he would even say if Monty did bring it up. ‘ _ Sorry, that really sucks that you’re a closet case, would you like for me to fuck off back to Tennessee? _ ’ 

But the most aggravating bit is how Monty doesn’t seem to mind flaunting his apparent queerness in front of Percy. He’s still calling him darling, and more than once has gotten a text, presumably from the same guy Percy saw him meeting up with, and disappeared for half an hour before swanning back into the studio, clothes rumpled and face flushed. Percy can’t figure out if Monty’s actually closeted, and just doesn’t give a damn about his opinion, or if this is all some sort of joke to fuck with his head. He has stayed true to his promise not to look Monty up, though, so he can’t even check if he’s an overly enthusiastic ‘ally’ on twitter. 

The seamstress steps back to scribble down something on a legal pad, and Percy takes the opportunity to cross the room and lean against the wall next to Monty. “So, how does this work? Do we get to practice in-costume?”

“We normally get the shoes, but that’s it. They don’t want to have to fix things the day of filming.” Monty sighs. “Anyway, we’re three days out, so I figured we should talk strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“We’ve got to get people to like us. Otherwise we’ll probably be gone pretty quickly. Part of it is scores, but if you’re horrid enough, they’ll figure out a way to get you disqualified—say you got injured in practice or something.”

Percy bites his lip. “So, what do people like?”

“Funny, charming, and good-looking,” Monty says. “I’ve got the first two covered, but you’ll have to carry us on the third one, darling.”

“You’re good-looking,” Percy blurts out. It’s not a lie, but he hadn’t really thought about it until now. But Monty’s smile is disarming, and his hair is always ruffled just so, and his scars just add to the rogue-ish air he gives off. 

Monty laughs, but it’s empty. “Thanks.” 

There’s an awkward pause before Percy comes up with something to say. “Strategy?” he prompts. 

“Right, strategy.” Monty fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “There’s also an element of chemistry. We’ve got to look good together. Well, not  _ together _ but next to each other. There has to be banter, shared glances, that sort of thing. Now, people already think I’m an incorrigible flirt, so I thought—”

“People think you’re an incorrigible flirt? Why?”

Monty blushes. “I’ve given them more than enough reasons. Anyway, they’re going to expect me to hit on you.”

“I thought you said you weren’t—”

“Going to talk about it? I’m not, it’s just—if I’m going to be out, I might as well play it up for the votes, right?” Monty scratches at the scarred side of his face, not meeting Percy’s eyes. “Lean into what people think of me for the sake of the competition.”

“Oh.” The way that Monty is squirming makes Percy think he’s not thrilled about this plan. 

“So, I thought I would take up the ‘slutty bisexual’ bit. And for you—”

Percy squints at him. “Are you asking for permission to flirt with me for TV?”

“Well, yes. God, it sounds worse when you say it like that, but I didn’t want to go into it without any warning and make you uncomfortable.”

“Oh. Yes, you’re fine, thank you,” Percy says. This is such an odd conversation, he’s really not sure how to carry on. “Most people just go right ahead. They think demisexuality is a challenge.”

Monty screws up his face. “Ew. Well, at least you know I don’t  _ actually _ fancy you. But I think this could actually help our chances.”

“Sure.” 

“So you’re okay? With me… strategically making comments?”

Percy snorts. “Yes. Strategic comments are fine.”

…………

Fucking  _ hell _ , Monty is going to crawl out of his own damn skin if Richard Peele keeps looking at him like that. He can feel Richard’s eyes on him from across the ballroom, through the ten layers of this damnable costume.

Percy, God bless him, hasn’t seemed to notice the way Monty has been shifting back and forth in discomfort for the past twenty minutes. He’s glancing around at the crowd of their competitors, all crammed into the on-deck backstage area. Monty has recognized at three of the celebrity contestants as lower-level actors and models he’s had one-night stands with, which doesn’t fare well for his ability to make conversation in between dances. He and Percy are at the back of the queue, the last pair to go on, so a woman in all black is still hovering around them with a can of hairspray and several packs of concealer. 

“Are you ready?” Monty asks, as if there’s any way to answer that except for ‘yes.’ Percy’s mouth quirks up in a smile at the question. 

“Not at all. But it’ll be fine.”

Before Monty can answer, the speakers start blaring some chart-topping generic dance pop from a few years ago, and the live audience beyond the thin dividing wall that separates the dancers from the stage starts screaming. The first pair, an actress with an absolutely magnificent neck and her partner, spins out from behind the divider.

“Here we go,” Percy says, taking Monty’s hand. Monty very pointedly ignores the little kick his heartbeat gives. “Are all the suits this itchy?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He, thank God, is in the standard black suit that the male professionals all wear for the opening number, but Percy wasn’t spared from the costuming department’s zeal. His suit is gold and white, and shimmers even in the dim light of backstage. That, combined with the gold clips in his hair and the way he’s grinning now, makes him look like he’s glowing. It’s utterly unfair how Percy Newton manages to look gorgeous in these ridiculous costumes.

The line of pairs in front of them is disappearing quickly, and Monty shuffles forward, pulling Percy along with him. And then all at once, the stage manager is waving them on, and Percy’s arm is around his waist, and they’re off, stepping in time with the music as the spotlights beat down on them. Monty hasn’t felt this awake, this electric, for more than a year, and it’s like flying.

The music is pounding in his ears, even with the volume on his hearing aid turned down. He can see Percy mouthing something at him, smiling, and is vaguely aware of the audience, but really, it’s just him and the steps, tracing their way across the floor. He lets Percy spin him, lets the music wash over him, and then stutters to a stop with his arms outstretched as it cuts off. 

“Holy shit,” Percy says, only loud enough for him to hear. They’re wrapped up in each other in a way that somehow feels far closer than it did in rehearsals, both of Percy’s hands resting on his hips, and Monty can count the freckles under his eyes. “Holy shit.”

Monty swings out and takes his hand, pulling him into a bow as the rest of their competitors do the same. “Not bad, right?”

“It’s brilliant,” Percy says as they straighten back up, in that God-awful British accent he’s taken to adopting just to make Monty laugh. It works, too, and he can’t help but lean on Percy, relief flooding his body.  _ Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought. _

And then Monty looks to the judges’ table, and the moment shatters. 

…………

“So, what’s up?” Percy tries, leaning against the back of Monty’s chair as a makeup artist smooths out the mottled red of his scars. “You’re all quiet.”

“No I’m not.”

“Monty, you’ve only complained about your suit once.”

“So?”

“So, you’ve either decided that you are simply not going to voice your dissatisfaction with the costuming department—which is unlikely—or something is wrong.” 

Monty huffs. “The judge in the middle, the stout one, has the charm of an aging Genghis Khan?”

Percy can’t help but laugh. “Louis Bourbon.”

“Him, yes. We were on together two seasons ago, and I beat him for a spot in the fifth round. He is… not a fan of mine.”

“Ah. So we’re not going to do well?” Percy asks, trying to keep from sounding disappointed. It’s not that he was expecting to get very far, but he’s started to enjoy this. 

“We’re going to have to be better than everyone else to get the same score as them,” Monty says, crossing his arms. He still sounds too unsettled to have just recognized some old enemy, but he doesn’t seem to be volunteering any other information.

“Such is life as a queer.” Percy means it as a joke, but Monty almost flinches. “Sorry.”

He bats a hand at the air, almost catching the makeup artist in the face. “You’re fine. I’m… not used to talking about it.”

“Oh?”

“It wasn’t a thing that got acknowledged in my family. Aside from the ‘lots of boys fool around at that age’ excuse. That got trotted out a lot, right up until the ‘at that age’ bit became irrelevant.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Monty says, and the makeup artist lets him get up. “Time for costumes, darling.”

Half an hour later, Percy is wandering around backstage looking for Monty when he almost knocks over a girl in high heels and a short dress he realizes too late is one of the contestants. She catches herself on his shoulder as he stutters out an apology.

“You’re fine,” she says with a heavy French accent. “It was my fault. It’s just these damn shoes—”

“Exactly! They’re horrid.”

Percy turns to see Monty coming his way, gliding across the room in a white tank top and flowered pants and wincing every time he takes a step. “Monty, dear God.”

“Bloody torture devices,” Monty grunts, waving at the pair of silver heels on his feet. He comes to a stop at Percy’s side, winded, but miraculously recovers as soon as he notices the girl. “Hello my lady. You are?”

“Jeanne LeBrey,” she says, smirking. She gives Percy a light punch on the shoulder. “You stole my partner!”

“What?” 

Monty swoops in to kiss Jeanne’s hand, which seems a tad excessive. “They couldn’t have paired us up darling—it would’ve been unfair, putting me with the loveliest lady here.”

Jesus, he’s laying it on thick. Percy is tempted to tell them to get a room.  _ Although _ , he thinks hysterically,  _ Monty might not be able to reach her mouth unless he stays in the heels. _ Mercifully, a harried crew member ushers Monty and Percy to the standby area, although not before Jeanne can wish them good luck. 

“She seemed nice,” he says mildly. 

Monty hums in response. “You look nice.”

“Really? I thought I looked ridiculous.” Percy gives himself a once over. “With all the red. I don’t come off tomato-ish?”

“Not at all. It  _ suits _ you,” Monty says with a wink that only works to accentuate his bright blue eyeliner, and Percy groans. 

“I quit.” 

“You wouldn’t  _ dare _ .”

“Keep testing me with puns and we’ll see.” 

The pair that’s on ahead of them, a stocky redhead and a reality housewife, gets fives across the board and shuffles off for their post-dance interviews. Monty bumps his shoulder to Percy’s as well as he can with their height difference, and starts out into the ballroom.

It’s different this time, with the floor empty save for the cameras and the lights down low. There’s a high pitched shriek from the audience at his and Monty’s appearance on the steps, and Percy can’t keep himself from snorting. He’s sold out shows, sure, but never a stadium like this, and people have finally showed up to watch him fall on his ass. Still, it’s hard to complain. 

“Alright darling,” Monty says, putting a hand on his shoulder. Percy’s expecting something else, some kind of encouragement, but Monty just lets the words hang in the air, accompanied by a half-smile.

And then the music starts.

Monty struts across the floor in time with the beat, then turns back with an outstretched hand, smirking, and Percy takes it and pulls him close as Janelle Monáe’s voice cranks through the speakers. 

_ Baby, don't make me spell it out for you, _

_ All of the feelings that I've got for you. _

Just like that, they’re off, and Percy feels a little bit ridiculous, with all the shoulder movement and head bobbing he’s doing, but at least he’s looking ridiculous with Monty. There’s a moment when Monty’s face is so, so close to his, and even though they’ve done this a thousand times, Percy is still thrown off by how intense his gaze is. He thinks he might crack apart with Monty looking at him like this. He isn’t sure what to think about that. 

Monty twirls and stops so that he’s leaning against Percy for half a heartbeat before spinning back out of reach, and Percy presses on until Monty’s a breath away and has his leg kicked up at an angle that looks both suggestive and painful. God, how he’d complained about this bit during rehearsals. (“It’s embarrassing.” “Only if you don’t sell it darling.”) Percy is almost positive he’s selling it, but really, with Monty throwing himself backwards, all Percy can think is  _ Oh God, oh God, oh God, don’t drop him. _

_ That’s just the way you make me feel. _

Well. Maybe he’s also thinking about how there’s nothing better than the smile that Monty is wearing as ballroom erupts into cheers. But that’s a problem for later, isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song, if you didn't catch it, is make me feel by janelle monáe, which slaps (also monty's outfit is directly inspired by one of her outfits from the music video because i'm bad at coming up with costumes)   
> thank you for reading!!


	4. i'm wasting your honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty spirals. Percy's parents fly in to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i got tired of waiting to post and split chapter four into two chapters lmao

Monty really fucking needs to get off of Twitter, the absolute hellsite that it is, and yet, he can’t stop looking. It’s like watching a train wreck. He takes a swig of the shitty wine he picked up on the way back to his flat and presses play on the show clip again. 

It’s him and Percy, standing next to each other with hands intertwined, and the host is poking at them with these stupid little questions. 

“Now Monty,” she’s saying, “you dropped out after an injury two years ago, and you weren’t on last season because of some personal struggles. What’s it like to be back at  _ Nine to Jive _ ?”

Played back, Monty can see how obvious it is that he’s lying. “It’s absolutely magical. There’s nowhere I’d rather be, and I’m so grateful for this opportunity.”

“And Percy, how’s the U.K. treating you?”

Percy, God bless him, is at least able to give an honest answer. “It’s  _ cold _ .”

“Don’t worry darling, I’ll keep you warm,” onscreen Monty says with a wink, and God, how he regrets that. How he regrets the way Percy laughed and flushed while the audience screeched a bit. He doesn’t regret their scores—sixes across the board, respectable for a first outing—but everything else about it feels like a betrayal, except he’s not sure who he’s double-crossing. 

Underneath the clip, farther down in the thread, is a slew of reactions, ranging from the standard  _ You’re going to Hell _ and  _ Why do they need to shove it in my face _ to wine moms asking when the wedding is, but the worst of it is coming from the people who, hypothetically, should be on Monty’s side. 

_ Oh look, a straight guy capitalizing off of someone’s queerness. Lovely. _

_ Percy’s demi, creep. _

_ Queerbaiting, we love to see it.  _

_ Anyone else feel bad for Percy?  _

_ Bet you ten quid he turns around and says the f-slur. _

Monty wants to smack his head against a wall, or maybe just cry, but he settles for finishing off the bottle and typing out a response to  _ Is he seriously mocking effeminate guys right now? _

_ Maybe I just like glitter. _

It’s followed by the painted nails emoji, which feels passive-aggressive and fairly shitty, but he replies anyway, because it’s really the only criticism he can respond to without cleaving himself in half for all the world to see and pick at. He’s not about to correct the people who think he’s straight, and he definitely is only in this for the money. He can’t tell them that Percy is fine with it, and volunteering the fact that he has called himself a fair number of things while drunk and angry and swimming in self-hatred isn’t going to fix anything. But the worst part of it all is that Monty truly  _ does  _ feel bad for Percy. Sweet, lovely Percy, who deserves a partner who doesn’t get piss drunk every night and spends hours getting upset about random Twitter trolls.

He rolls over in bed and scrolls farther, down past the barrage of people angry with him for existing and to the particularly intrusive bits—the guys blatantly coming onto him, the girls asking him how he likes it. He considers texting Richard, just for something to do that isn’t laying there and being miserable, but then he notices it: the picture of him and Percy, hand in hand and grinning. The picture itself isn’t anything new. There’s been plenty of them floating around the internet. It’s who’s posted it.

_ So y’all remember how I said I was running away to England? Well, I did, sort of. But anyway, I’m on TV I suppose. (Can you tell my aunt wants me to use this as a PR thing?) Seriously though, I couldn’t have asked for a better partner than Monty. Who else will watch you shuffle awkwardly in sweatpants and not quit on the spot? _

It’s so foreign, the idea that Percy thinks about him at all outside of rehearsals, that Monty’s thrown for a loop. He’s not used to taking up space in anyone’s mind unless they’re watching him dance or they want a shag. He certainly doesn’t think he’s a good partner. But Percy probably doesn’t know any better. 

Monty retweets the photo with a heart, then calls Richard. 

…………

Percy is only half-awake when his aunt kicks in the door to his room, and the noise alone is enough to make him wince. 

“Up! We’ve got to pick your parents and Thomas up from the airport!” she says, shrill and high, and Percy has to fight the urge to pull the blankets over his head. 

His curiosity gets the better of him. “They’re flying in?”

“Well, yes, obviously. Did they not tell you?”

“No.”

His aunt bites her lip as she pulls open the blinds. “I can’t remember if it was supposed to be a surprise or not. Just act surprised, okay?”   
“Okay…” 

She leaves, and Percy is seriously considering rolling back over and sneaking an extra ten minutes of sleep (his aunt is always running at least a half an hour ahead of schedule), but then she sticks her head back through the doorway.

“You should probably give Henry fair warning. They want to meet him.”

Oh God. “Like, today?”

“They’re only coming for the weekend.”

“Shit.”

Percy has Monty’s phone number, technically. He’s used it once, to ask for advice on what pair of shoes to wear to rehearsal. This is a much bigger favor. 

**Percy:** so, my parents are flying in

**Monty:** ok????

**Percy:** they want to meet you

**Monty:** well. that might be an issue.

**Percy:** why?

**Monty:** will you believe me if i lie?

**Percy:** depends on the lie

**Monty:** i went home with someone

**Percy:** that’s your lie?

**Monty:** no i did. imnnot at home. and a bit hungover. and kind of a mess atm

**Percy:** should i tell them you can’t come to lunch

**Monty:** unless you can give me a ride, yeah

**Percy:** we’re going to pick them up, we can get you on the way

**Monty:** we?

**Percy:** me and my aunt

**Monty:** she cant come

**Percy:** why not?

**Monty:** at a guys place

**Percy:** ok

**Percy:** so she’ll get them and i’ll get you?

**Percy:** address?

**Monty:** god ty

**Monty:** {Location Sent}

**Monty:** xx

So. He’s picking up hungover morning-after Monty from an unspecified man’s house and taking him to lunch with his aunt and parents. Excellent. 

Percy groans and stumbles to his dresser.

…………

“Where the hell are you going?”

“To meet Percy.”

“Your partner Percy? The American musician?” Richard sneers. “What for? Pansy club?”

Monty doesn’t rise to the bait as he pops two Advils. “I’m meeting his parents.”

“Are you his  _ boyfriend _ or some shit?” Richard is still in bed, sprawled out and looking particularly prickish while Monty stands in his bathroom, trying to figure out a way to wear pajama pants and an old t-shirt that will make it parent-meeting-appropriate.

“Apparently they’re very invested in his life,” Monty says, and it’s hard not to feel bitter over it. He’s pretty sure his mother hasn’t even bothered to ask where he gets the money he transfers to her bank account. “So we’re going to lunch.”

“Fuuuuuck thaaaaat.” Richard might still be a little drunk. Monty isn’t really doing much better. Last night is all fuzzy after the fourth glass of whiskey. He remembers a cab ride, losing his shoes somewhere on the stairs on the way up to Richard’s flat, and a fair amount of sloppy kissing followed by an even fairer amount of alcohol, but for the most part it’s blank. Although he did wake up with a monstrous hickey too high up to hide with a jacket, so. Richard is behind him now, snaking his hand up Monty’s thigh. “Stay here.”

Monty takes a couple of steps towards the bathroom door. “You’re considerably less attractive when I’m not shitfaced, so I’ll be leaving, actually.” He marches out with far more dignity than is appropriate for the situation and collapses on the building stoop, groaning. Why does he never have the forethought to bring sunglasses with him when he knows he’s going to be hungover?

Twenty minutes later, Percy pulls up to the kerb in a truly horrifying rental minivan and rolls down the window. “ _ Monty? _ ”

“Hallo, darling.” He climbs into the passenger seat and plucks the sunglasses from Percy’s forehead. “Where are we dining?”

“You can’t meet my parents like  _ this _ .” Percy waves a hand at him, possibly to indicate his general dishevelment and state of disaster. 

“Well. Could you take me home then so I can change?”

“Why didn’t you get a taxi?”

“No money.”

“You couldn’t ask…” Percy nods his head towards the building. “The guy?”

Monty laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. “No.”

“Okay… home?” 

Percy has his phone propped up on the gearstick, and Monty reaches to put his address into the GPS. When he’s finished, Percy shakes his head. “We’ll be late.”

“Would you rather me go like this?”

“I’m staying closer to the restaurant. We’ll go there.”

There are several reasons Monty should not go to Percy’s flat. One, he doesn’t think making your partner decent is part of the duties of a _ Nine to Jive _ contestant. Two, he will probably end up vomiting on the carpet. Three, the prospect of being in the same flat that Percy Newton is currently writing music in is making him feel lightheaded. But it’s not like he’s going to say  _ no _ . 

When they arrive, Monty is underwhelmed. The building is run-down and on a sort of shady street. Shouldn’t a world-class musician have better accommodations? 

The inside of the flat, a two-bedroom on the third floor, isn’t that impressive either. It just looks like a normal rental flat, like it’s barely lived in. Monty’s starting to feel a bit let down, standing in the doorway and searching for confirmation that this is, in fact, where Percy is staying, when his eyes catch on a beat-up fiddle case open on the couch, spilling over with sheet music and polaroid pictures. 

“Come here.” Percy leans out of the bathroom with what looks like a makeup bag in hand. “I’ve got to cover up your—well, the—” He waves a hand at his neck and blushes, looking away. 

Monty grimaces. “I’m really sorry about this—”

“No! No, you’re fine. I didn’t know until this morning, I can’t expect you not to have a night in with your boyfriend when I haven’t told you about any plans.” Percy still isn’t looking at him. “But, um, I don’t—I don’t think this is the kind of restaurant where you can wear pajamas.”

Monty forces a smile as he crosses the sitting room. “Alright. D’you think your concealer will work though?”

“Oh, God, this isn’t mine. It’s my aunt’s.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

And suddenly, Monty is painfully aware of the way he’s standing there with his hands limp at his sides in a near-stranger’s bathroom. It’s not that this is an unfamiliar place to be, it’s just that normally he’d at least have his shirt off by now. “So should I—”

“I’ve got it,” Percy says, looking at him with such a strange mix of fondness and amusement that Monty thinks he might just melt into the floor. He unzips the bag and pulls out various brushes and palettes and things that Monty has no clue about. His knowledge of makeup extends to covering up bruises and whatever he’s picked up from watching girls redo theirs on awkward mornings after. 

“How do you know how to do this?” Monty asks as Percy applies the concealer with some spongy thing. Their faces are close together, but that’s nothing new after weeks of dance rehearsals. 

Percy does a crooked imitation of a smile. “Sixteen years in the closet taught me well.”

“Oh. Right, sorry.”

Monty watches as a little crease appears between Percy’s eyebrows. “What are you sorry for?”

“I didn’t want for you to think that I was, like, poking at you. Or trying to draw attention, or saying that you shouldn’t know, or saying that you should know, or—dear Lord, I should stop talking now.”

Percy looks like he’s holding back laughter, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I’m not offended by you forgetting that I’m trans.”

“But I  _ didn’t _ —I mean, not that I think about it all the time—it just never occurred to me that you would know how to use makeup because of it.” 

“I can also walk in heels.”

“Well, so can I. You’re not special, darling.” 

Percy laughs as he packs up the makeup, and when he sways forward, their foreheads knock. “Christ, I thought you were going to break an ankle.”

“I thought I was too.”

Percy looks him up and down. “Will any of my clothes even fit you?”

“Probably not.” Monty plays with the hem of his t-shirt. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“What?”

“The bloke who’s flat you picked me up from. He’s not— he’s nobody.”

“But on the day we did promo photos—”

“Yeah, it’s the same guy. We’re both deeply closeted, he gets bored, I play along… there’s nothing else to it.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Monty laughs. “What have you got to be sorry for?”

“It sounds like he’s using you. You deserve better,” Percy says softly, not meeting Monty’s eyes, and what the hell is he supposed to do with that?

_ Do I really?  _ Monty wants to ask.  _ Have I actually earned anything more than closet hookups and drunken nights?  _ But instead, he says “Really, you probably don’t want me to meet your parents anyway, I—”

“No, I do. Unless you don’t want to go. I can take you home if that’s what you want. It’s just, my mom was really excited for me to go out and meet people, and my dad spent a weekend binging old episodes you were in. They’re kind of super-fans. And they really do want to meet you. But they’ll understand if you don’t want to come.”

Monty spends a solid ten seconds trying to untangle that mess of a statement before deciding to move past it. “You’re sure they won’t hate me?” 

“Positive.” Percy reaches to grab him by the arm, seems to think better of it, then pulls back. “If you want different pants, some of my aunt’s will probably work. And then you can put a blazer on over the t-shirt. Like Tony Stark.”

“She’ll realize I’m wearing her pants though.” 

“She’s probably going to blow off lunch to blow my uncle.” 

“Ew.”

“Definitely.”

And that is how Monty comes to be strolling along a London street with Percy  _ fucking _ Newton in women’s jeans at eleven thirty on a Saturday. It’s easier to just walk to the restaurant than bother with trying to find a parking spot for Percy’s hideous rental van. 

“So, what should I expect?” he asks, trying not to sound nervous. 

“My mom will probably ask you what kind of music you like, how you like living in the city, what you think of sweet tea. She’s concerned you’re going to turn out to be a stuck-up city boy.”

“But I  _ am _ a stuck-up city boy.”

“Maybe. But she won’t really care as long as you’re not an ass.”

“Is there some sort of American-south standard of politeness I’m not aware of?”

Percy laughs. “I don’t think so.”

“Comforting. What about your dad?” Monty tries to ignore the way his heart kicks a little. He has never once enjoyed meetings with fathers, his or otherwise, and he hardly thinks Percy will appreciate it if he starts crying into his salad. 

“He’s just sweet and awkward.”

“Awkward like I’m-bad-at-talking-to-strangers awkward or I’m-intimidated awkward or I’m-the-lone-straight-guy-and-don’t-know-how-to-handle-it awkward?”

“The first two.” Percy glances at Monty, forehead creased. “Why would the third one be awkward?”

Monty pastes on a crooked smile. “You’ve never seen the lone-straight-guy phenomena?”

“I’ve never been in a majority-queer space. Well, except for shows, maybe.”

“It’s basically where you have the one straight guy at a gay bar who’s just intensely uncomfortable the entire time. It was also common during family dinners before my little brother was born.”

“You have a little brother?”

“And a little sister, although she’s just started uni. He’s four. Lives with my mum out in Cheshire.”

“What about your father?” Percy asks, but when he sees the look on Monty’s face he backtracks. “Sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”

“Oh, he’s somewhere in London, I think. Or maybe in Germany. My mum divorced him a couple of months ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We all saw it coming. And my mum got full custody of Adrian, so it turned out alright.” Monty isn’t sure why he’s telling Percy about this. He’s forcing the words out around the lump in his throat. “So now he’s fucked right off back to working because the restraining order means he can’t bother us anymore, and we’re all using his money to pay for Felicity’s medical school.”

“Jesus.” 

“I really just dumped all my family bullshit on you right before you go to lunch with your parents, didn’t I? Sorry.” Monty can’t look at Percy, can’t bear to see the inevitable look of pity. Being this honest with someone who so genuinely seems to have their shit together is exhausting. 

“It’s fine,” Percy says quietly, stopping to pull open the door of a little ramen place. Monty follows him in and watches as he’s mauled in a hug by a short round woman with her dreadlocks twisted into a bun on the top of her head. She and Percy exchange whispered words before her eyes wander over her son’s shoulder to land on Monty. 

“Oh, Monty,” she says, smiling and moving to give him a hug as well. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Monty stiffens as she wraps her arms around him, but if she notices, she doesn’t let on. It’s been so long since anyone has touched him without ulterior motives that he’s not sure how to respond. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“ _ Ma’am _ !” She laughs and turns to Percy, jabbing a thumb in Monty’s direction. “What did you tell him about me?” 

“All good things, Mama.” Percy grins, and Monty watches as he scans the packed restaurant. Sitting in a booth at the far wall is a gangly redheaded man with the same nose as Percy, and he waves to them with a wide smile. 

Monty shakes hands with Percy’s father without flinching, which he considers a success (God, how pathetic is that?), and manages to keep from ordering wine when the waitress comes around. He’s fine. He’s doing fine. Percy’s parents are nice, and they ask easy questions about rehearsals and how Percy is doing in London and if they’re able to drop any hints about what’s coming on Friday when the show airs. It’s all so, so fine and easy and not at all painful until Percy’s father, who’s in the middle of a story about a particularly irritating coworker, swings a hand around to point dramatically into the air and Monty jumps and spills orange soda down the front of Percy’s blazer, which he’s rolled twice at the cuffs and is still too long in the sleeves. 

“Shit,” he says, and then, “Wait, sorry, do you guys not like swearing, I—” Percy’s parents both look at him like he’s sprouted another head. Monty winces. “Right, sorry, I’ll just go then.” And then he realizes he’s on the inside of the booth, so he’s either got to ask Percy to move or crawl over his lap. “Never mind.”

“Oh, honey, you’re alright.” Percy’s mum leans over the table to dab at Monty with her napkin. “I remember how nervous I was meeting Phillip’s parents.”

Percy chokes on his soup. “ _ Mama _ .”

“What? I’m just trying to reassure him—”

“We’re not  _ dating _ . We’re not  _ together _ . This isn’t me bringing my boyfriend to meet y’all.” Percy’s voice is tight. 

Monty isn’t sure why that stings, because it’s true. “I’m afraid I don’t really swing Percy’s way,” he says, which is definitely  _ not  _ true. “It’s a damn shame too. Your son’s a lovely dancer.”

No one at the table looks convinced. Percy’s father lets out an “Ah,” to fill the silence. 

“But I definitely don’t mind getting paired up with a man,” Monty continues, because clearly he hasn’t dug himself a big enough hole already. “It’s nice to dance a different part for once—Percy has to lead, because he’s so tall, you know. And he can pick me up, which is strange, but fun, and he’s surprisingly strong, and… yeah.” He’s horribly aware of the orange stain soaking into his shirt, how very not-heterosexual he sounds, of the way Percy is staring at him. “Right-o. I’ll just…” And then he stares back at Percy in a way that is meant to say  _ Please please move so I can go to the bathroom and knock myself out cold on the corner of the sink so I can forget this ever happened _ but probably comes off more like  _ I think I have a stupidly large schoolboy crush on you and I have no clue what to do about it _ . 

Percy, bless him, lets him out of the booth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheers!


End file.
